


The Trainchaser

by fishstixx



Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angry TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Bandits & Outlaws, Bounty Hunters, Dream Smp, Drinking, Gen, Gun Violence, Old West Vernacular, On the Run, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Robbery, TommyInnit Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Winged TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Winged Wilbur Soot, aka they say dumb cowboy shit, it’s an old west au so there will be some not pretty subject matters, mentions of lynching, tommy is a bastard in the literal sense of the word
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29163702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishstixx/pseuds/fishstixx
Summary: Tommy’s been surviving on his own and running from the law for... his whole adolescence, really. That was okay, though- he had Tubbo, and the rest of their little posse, and they had /fun/ rustling cattle and jacking trains.Then family comes a-knocking and manages to spectacularly complicate things.(He’s not entirely convinced that Wilbur doesn’t like doing so, either.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Dream SMP Ensemble & TommyInnit, No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 76
Kudos: 347





	1. Prologue

The sky was open and clear, painted hues of blizzard and havelock mottling the sky in interlocking webs of marbled blue. The sun beat down as it always did, heating the desert sand as clutches of pronghorn deer grazed and nosed at the sediment.

Every now and again, a bout of wind would kick up and send waves of red dust billowing across the quiet streets of the old town. Squat wooden buildings lined the trodden earth road with their old-town charm and rickety floorboards.

Further past the town limits laid the homesteads. Ranches and farms functioning as housing and work for different groups of people, all running sheep and ploughing the land for a meager living.

Of course, some of them engaged in less than legal activities on the side to fluff their pockets and make life a little more comfortable. As was the case with Sleepy Ranch; one son stayed, typically the more self-assured one of the bunch, to tend to the animals and the land while the rest of the homestead’s occupants crossed state lines to engage in outlaw’s world. The distance allowed for their alternate lives to not follow them home when they returned for a few weeks at a time.

The whole settlement knew everyone and small-town gossip was not something to be taken lightly; and so he remained known as Wilbur, the son who stayed. 

It came as no surprise that he was alone one early morning when company came.

Wilbur had only just risen, the light from the sun failing to reach even a place as open as the chaparral in which the town laid. The whole house was washed out and faded with pre-morning darkness and a candle had been lit so he could see the kitchen in which he had ambled into. The knock came and he blinked blearily.

It sounded again after not being immediately answered, confirming that Wilbur had not imagined that incessant rapping on his door. It was too early for him to be dealing with this- nobody came around town at the ass crack of dawn, nevermind to any of the ranches that laid just outside city limits. It was too long of a meander on horseback for even the earliest of risers to make it so soon.

Wilbur tried to hold his breath and hope that the stranger would go away. They didn’t, and the next series of knocks more closely resembled a round of bangs.

Unwilling to get his door bashed in, he trudged over to the front door and swung it open.

A porcelain mask smiled lifelessly back at him.

“Hello, Dream.” Wilbur rumbled, voice a low cadence that practically _screamed_ ‘I-just-woke-up’. His visitor had the audacity to seem all bright and chirpy, rocking back on his heels.

Dream ran this town. For months, it was just a collection of meaningless buildings unrecognized as any proper settlement. Then the rail line was built to cross paths with the place, more people consequently moved in, and Dream filed for it to be recognized as a village of its own. Now it was a rinky-dink boomtown tucked away in the desert, ruled by a founder who was a sheriff by legality and a cutthroat gang leader in practice.

Everyone knew that a sheriff was supposed to be the one posting bounties, and everyone also knew that Dream did no such thing and instead traveled to other counties to hunt heads himself. At one point, ‘Sheriff Clay’ and ‘Bounty Hunter Dream’ had been two separate identities, but over the years Dream stopped taking the mask off when he stepped back into town and the line between the personas was blurred irreparably.

There was no law here, and the villagers were either too far away from anyone else to get outside interference or too unbothered to care.

“Let’s skip the pleasantries, Wilbur,” Dream purred, voice sounding _perfectly_ pleasant despite those words. “I come lookin’ for your brother. You don’t know what kinda trouble he’s in.”

“Techno? Him and Phil aren’t in town. They’re not where you can reach ‘em, neither.” Wilbur leaned against the doorframe and allowed the wind to swing the door open so Dream could see into the perfectly still house. “I don’t know what he must’ve done, but for you to come knockin’, it can’t be good.”

“Not Techno. Your other one.”

Wilbur frowned. He had one brother, adopted by his biological father. It made sense for Dream to come for Techno when the latter was probably out razing some deputy’s office to the ground, but another brother? One that Wilbur had not only never heard of, but also certainly didn’t have.

“Other one?” He prompted, because he _could_ shut the door on Dream’s face but he didn’t because he wanted answers, damn it.

“Yeah. Uh… Thomas, his name is.”

“You must be mixed up. Techno’s my only brother.”

Dream must have sensed the honesty in the deflection, because now there was a smug lilt to his voice that made Wilbur’s blood boil. “I’m surprised you don’t know, Wilbur. His face is plastered on every bounty board past the Badlands. Description, too.”

“I _don’t_ have a second brother.” Wilbur barked. His tone had taken a sharp, authoritative turn, and he went to slam the door in Dream’s face. The reach he had to make, as the door was still wide open, gave Dream enough time to shove his boot forward to catch it before he was shut out.

“Yes, you do.” Dream’s words were cold and dangerous now. Wilbur looked into the sliver of the mask that was still visible through the crack in the door and glowered. How _dare_ this tyrant come into his home and insist that he had another family member that had escaped his attention for however-many years.

Dream continued talking despite Wilbur’s plight. He had the nerve to sound exasperated, drawing out the oncoming explanation like he was speaking to a child. “Phil should have gotten the letter a couple years ago, when the obituary went out and we were contacting the people listed in her in-case-of-death document. Story goes that some fling of his from out east of the Great Watchtowers had a son she didn’t let Phil meet, and then she died. Jesus, Wilbur. If you don’t know your own kin, then it’s no wonder that he turned out so… bad. Even worse than your lot.”

Wilbur’s knuckles lost their color, skin stretched taut over bone with how tight he was gripping the door. The reference to his family as a ‘lot’ marked the end of his patience and he began trying to subtly crush Dream’s boot in between the frame and the door. Dream just smiled back at him.

“How come you’re only now comin’ for him?” Wil gritted out. He needed an explanation. This whole thing- it escaped him. No way did Phil have a second biological child.

“He’s been a dirty thief ever since he was old enough to hold a peashooter,” Dream sounded awfully nonchalant for someone whose boot leather was gaining white creases as it folded over itself in a squish, “-but he’s still only a boy so I didn’t think him gutsy enough for anything past mugs and roadside banditry. Turns out I was wrong and we just found out that it’s _his_ bunch who’s been kicking up trouble all around the state for the past year or so.”

Wilbur felt sick. Dream apparently took the silence as a motion to keep running his mouth. 

“I come around here because you lot are supposed to be the type to hold onto your blood ties and I need the little weasel dealt with. Figured you could give me a tip-off.”

So Wilbur not only had a kid brother, but apparently one that had been blockaded from their life and who was currently being pursued by Dream.

This was _not good_.

“Surely he can’t be _that_ wild.” Wilbur mustered up as airy a cadence as possible, attempting to hide his mounting concern over a child who he didn’t know and probably wasn’t even related to. There was no way that Phil had-

“That’s what I thought, too, when I started hearing tell of him. Listen, Wilbur. The fucker stole a _war wagon_ \- so him and his little posse have at least one gatling to their name. That’s insane. He’s a menace.”

“He’s a kid.”

“A kid with wings and a gatling gun. Justice pays nicely too, I’d be willing to split with you if you help me. Sixty-fourty.” _Wings._ If this kid had wings, well. That’d be proof enough that he was Phil’s. 

“Absolutely not.” Wilbur hissed, the words dripping like poison from his tongue. “He’s got to be younger than I am and if you had your way, you’d be walkin’ him onto the gallows.”

“Sixteen. He’s sixteen.”

“Fuck!” Wilbur cried, pushing a hand through his hair, and he actually _laughed_ because the sun wasn’t even up yet and it turns out that he had another war criminal family member except this one was a kid. “I am not helping you arrest and kill a child.”

Somewhere far off in the distance, the whistle of a train sounded. 

“Very well.” Dream dipped his head in a shallow nod- a formality, more than anything. “Now, if you could please release my shoe, I’ll be on my way.”

Wilbur let the door be blown open once more and watched with sick satisfaction as Dream twisted his foot away.

He did not remove his eyes from the other man until he was long gone, and he took great pleasure in the dissonance to Dream’s step as he limped back to his horse.


	2. I Once Heard A Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> these trains, they roll by all night

A hand was rested on either side of the horse’s face, lightly holding the animal’s cheek while he ran a brush through her mane. Her huge face dwarfed his hand.

“You know, you’re a right proper brute.” He informed her. The mare only huffed.

“I mean, you ain’t no Henry, but you do look like you eat bullets for breakfast. You draft horses are all the same. Ye’h, you War Wagon Runner, I bet that-“

“Tommy!”

The mare tossed her head at the interrupting yell, tousling her mane and effectively undoing the last few minutes of Tommy’s life. He groaned and stepped away from her.

The call had come from an overzealous Tubbo, who was sliding off his horse and sprinting over with paper clutched in hand. Tommy’s previous irritation dissipated as he rocked back on his heels and sneered.

“Whatchya got there, Big Man?” He asked when Tubbo was near enough to hear it, taking the paper that was offered to him as Tubbo doubled over panting.

As he uncrumpled the paper (revealing that it was actually two papers wadded together), an elbow found his side. He looked down and over at Tubbo’s crooked, scheming grin.

“We’re makin’ it big, Tommy, look.” Tubbo informed him, so Tommy flattened out the papers against his leg before holding them both out before him.

They were two bounty notices, both sporting a triangle tear at the top center from where they’d been ripped off their nails. The poster on top had Tubbo’s scheming mug. 

The second paper was his own bounty notice.

Tommy always did care more for looking at himself, so he shuffled Tubbo’s wanted poster to the back to better scrutinize his own. 

  
  


_WANTED_

_A REWARD WILL BE PAID UPON THE_ ** _CAPTURE_** _AND_ ** _RETURN_** _DEAD OR ALIVE_ _OF_

_TOMMY “BLOODLETTER” INNIT_

_MEMBER OF THE NOTORIOUS CLINGER GANG_

_RUTHLESS TRAIN ROBBER, HUSTLER, AND KILLER. LAST SEEN WEST OF EL RAPIDS_

_TOMMYINNIT IS A KNOWN BANDIT, CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS AT ALL TIMES_

_! KNOWN FOR STAKING OUT MOUNTAIN PASSES AND RAILROAD TRACKS. TRAVELERS BEWARE !_

  
  


Tommy lowered the paper, the line of his mouth pulled thin in a lilted smirk. Tubbo was looking at him with bright eyes, bouncing on his heels.

“It gets better,” Tubbo laughed. “Turn it over.”

Tommy did. On the back half of the paper was a description. Most of it was accurate, _(“You’re not six foot three, Tommy, you’re six one.” “No, no, the wanted poster is always right. I’m a big man, Tubbo.”)_ save most notably for the wing description. Tommy’s wings unconsciously flared behind him.

_TOMMYINNIT IS AN AVIAN HYBRID WITH CLIPPED FEATHERS RENDERING HIM FLIGHTLESS. IF THIS INFORMATION IS EVER PROVED TO BE OUTDATED AND HE IS SPOTTED IN THE AIR, PLEASE CONTACT THE PRESS AT [LOCATION]._

Tommy was _sickeningly_ glad that the description was wrong.

Tommy twisted to look behind him at his wings. His feathers were obsessively well-kept, shades of light and dark gray blended together in a gorgeous brindle with cream splattering over them in piebald patches. Avian hybrids were rare; ones with mutations such as melanism, albinism, or piebald markings were even more so.

It was hard to notice unless one was acquainted with hybrid traits, but the feature of his wings that most affected Tommy was a second mutation- one that wasn’t purely cosmetic like the first. The bones in his wings were set odd, twisted slightly in a way that made flight impossible and sometimes kept Tommy up late at night with the ache of them.

For all their faults, his wings were his pride and joy. When he was younger he had wondered if simply hacking them off would make his life easier. Because they did _hurt_ some days, especially when the air was cool and wet like it could get in the winter. Then Tommy got older and grew thankful for their presence, for the added ability to flare the huge limbs and make himself seem bigger; or for the warmth that came with wrapping them around Tubbo and himself when the cold season set fractals of frost to settle over curly tufts of the bison’s fur.

“The press is stupid.” Tommy decided, folding the poster back in half and letting it flutter to the ground. “First they give us stupid little nicknames and now they’re goin’ around sayin’ that someone hacked at some of my feathers. Ain’t nobody _ever_ getting at my wings, bitch.”

Tubbo rose a hand to touch his own hybrid traits- antler stubs, because they might as well have brothers so of course neither boy was fully human- and chuckled. “Believe me, I know. I saw it in town when I was getting more feed, since we have two extra horses now, and I thought it was funny. They’re calling us a gang, Tommy!”

Tommy laughed and slung an arm over Tubbo’s shoulders to draw him in close. “Fuck yeah, we’re a gang! We stole a _war wagon!_ ”

“We didn’t keep most of the stuff in it, save for that.” Tubbo nodded to the wheeled gatling gun settled near the front of their camp, poised to protect should bounty hunters ever find them.

Tommy _loved_ their camp. It was nestled away in the middle of nowhere, a shallow and open-mouthed cave beneath the buttes that laid in the desert southwest of the Badlands. The tall cave provided shelter from the weather while not being deep enough to be dangerous, allowing for a nice space to line torches and lay their sleeping mats. Crates of supplies and a campfire near the entrance made the cave opening feel a little less exposed, providing cover to shoot from should they need it. Tommy had even built a hitching post for his and Tubbo’s horses, plus the two draft horses that they had accumulated when they stole the war wagon.

“Yeah, Sam’s keepin’ it.” Tommy laced his fingers together and stretched his arms out before him. A series of satisfying cracks resounded as the joints popped. “I’m sure he’ll lend it to us if we ever need it.”

“We’re never gonna _need_ a war wagon.” Tubbo scoffed. He folded his arms over his chest as Tommy rolled his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that! A war wagon is overkill, even for the government.”

“Then how’d we manage to steal one?” Tommy snarked, only to get socked in the arm by Tubbo. He yelped. “Hey!”

“You’re such a baby!” Tubbo laughed, pulling his hat down tighter onto his head to keep it from falling off when he threw his head back. “I’ve seen you get shot, you can handle getting playfully hit _once_!”

Tommy jutted out his bottom lip in a pout and rubbed at his forearm where he’d been hit. He was reminded of the starburst scar clipping his shoulder where varmint ammunition had embedded ages ago now.

Tommy had been stealing chickens when a farm dog’s barking woke the local ranch hand and got him caught. It was how he and Tubbo had met, ran into each other coincidentally stealing livestock from the same farm. “Yeah, well- well- I work a _hard_ and _dangerous_ job, home should be a safe place for me!”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Big T.” Tubbo’s laughs died to amused snickers as he raised a hand to clap Tommy’s shoulder. “What’s Sam got us doin’ this week?”

Tommy’s smile grew malicious. Tubbo’s smile, in turn, dropped.

“Oh no.”

“Oh, _yes_.” Tommy purred, picking up the horse brush where it’d been dropped to set it on the nearest crate. “I went out and talked to him this morning, a little after you left. You’re gonna wanna hear this one Tubbo, it’s very excitin’!”

“You say that every time you pull me into a job that almost kills us!”

“They _all_ almost kill us!”

Tubbo let out a tight sigh and hid his face in his hands. “Lay it on me, then.”

“It’s a train.”

Tubbo’s fingers parted enough to reveal a curious eye. “Go on.”

“A _rich_ one.”

“That’s it, I’m sold.”

Tommy laughed. “I knew it! So the thing is, some rich ass oil company is coming to scope out some land west of Dream SMP. They wanna drill.”

“Gross.”

“I know. We can stop ‘em, though, rob ‘em blind and convince them it ain’t worth it. The train’s coming from east and is going to station at Dream’s town early morning, according to Sam, which means it’ll be around _here_ and in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere in the dead of night.”

Tubbo had stars in his eyes. “Oh my god, it’s perfect.”

“I know!” Tommy cried, the high pitch of it making the draft horse he’d been brushing earlier stomp. He lowered his volume at that. “I know. So I’m thinkin’, you know that tunnel, the one just before the bridge over the river?”

“We don’t have many tunnels Tommy, it’s mostly plains and desert out here. You could’ve just said ‘the tunnel’.”

“Shut up. So I’m thinkin, train rolls by at night, we jump down on it from on top of the tunnel entrance. We’ll be under rock at night so it’ll be pitch black, we’ll take out the guards before they even know what’s happenin’ and by the time they have starlight to see by, we’re already collecting _charitable donations_ from the passenger cars.”

“Tommy,” Tubbo started with complete honesty, “You are a genius.”

“I know.” 

Both boys grinned, eyes reflecting the stars and the moon and each other.


	3. Stop in the Oil Pipe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw for gun violence, murder, + theft  
> if that bothers you, please stop reading this fic! /nm  
> i won’t be labeling trainchaser chapters like that anymore unless they’re particularly bad because it’ll be prominent throughout this whole au. take care of yourself friends!

“What do they think?” Tubbo’s harsh whisper rose above the ambient sounds of a midwestern night, over the hoots of owls and the raking grate of the cicadas. Somewhere off in the distance, a turkey prattled.

“You know well that I don’t wanna listen.” Tommy hissed back in response.

Tubbo had been referring to the voices. Tommy had gotten quite good at ignoring them- they were very skittish, they were. They always screamed to _run, he’s about to die_ , so Tommy shoved them down and drowned them out with his own obnoxious shouting instead. It was hard to compete with Tommy’s brigade of women and crime.

Still, they’d always been a part of him, and as usual they swelled up with excitement and fear when Tommy was about to get himself in trouble. 

“Just figured I’d ask. You’ve known some useful things ‘cus of them.”

Tubbo didn’t sound off-put despite just getting snapped at, only mildly curious. Tommy dragged his thin hands down his face and groaned.

“Yeah, well not tonight. They’re just convinced I’m gonna get shot or some shit.”

“Ah, you won’t get shot. The train guards around here are pretty incompetent.”

“This train’s not from around here.” Tommy pointed out. He wasn’t quite sure why he was defending the voices- but they did have a point. The locomotive was hauling people from out past El Rapids, past the Badlands, past everything that Tommy had ever known.

Not like a train like this would ever come from the Badlands. The settlement was away from any of the tracks, hidden in the darkness of the rock formations that were so common in Tommy’s stretch of desert. No rivers- the place was wracked by drought, with exactly one well that was dug into a spring and found itself the subject of plenty of gang warfare- and the only way to get in or out was by going through Pandora’s Canyon. 

Taking that journey unprepared was practically a death wish. Bandits, Tommy included, staked out the cliffsides; mugging any unlearning travelers and leaving them to rot with nothing in the sweltering summer heat.

Before Tommy had made a name for himself- when he had first been orphaned and had nothing but a peashooter and the clothes on his back- he relied on the measly earnings from those sparse robberies. Of course, anyone going through Pandora’s Canyon likely didn’t have much and he’d barely kept himself fed those days. It didn’t take long for one of those travelers to be able to outmatch a trigger happy twelve year old, yet thankfully the first person to manage to do so was Sam. That was how Tommy ended up under his employment.

So even though the Badlands was dangerous and terrible, Tommy was made there. He could handle it. A train station could not.

“How big and bad could it be?” Tubbo shrugged, jerking Tommy out of his thoughts. “It’s just a bunch of rich yankees pushing pennies around. I stopped being scared of train robberies a long time ago.”

“Yeah, and right scared you used to be.” Tommy snickered. Ah, the first time Sam had pressed a railroad map into their hands and said ‘go get it’. That was a good memory- Tubbo had been trembling so bad that his boots shook, and Tommy was sure that the jewelry passed over was more out of pity than anything. The older boy had been especially convinced that they were about to die when Tommy set a stick of dynamite to the boxcar safe and lit it. 

“Shut up.” Tubbo gave Tommy a light clip over the ears. “Robbing a train with the most reckless teenager on this side of the Holy Lands seemed like a-“

Far and distant, a train whistle cut through the night air. A herd of pronghorn deer looked up at the howl and took off into the underbrush.

Both boys hushed up after that, falling dead silent as they waited for the train. That was… quite a process seeing as steam locomotives weren’t particularly fast. Tommy would know, he’d caught up to quite a few on horseback. Maybe that was because Henry was just so poggers, though.

The billows of steam rose up over the hills, visible with refracted glints of starlight in the night sky. Soon the dark outline of black metal rose beneath it, the train chugging closer.

The sound was terribly loud, rattling and screaming as it drew nearer. It didn’t phase either boy. They’d both grown up on and around such machinery- Tommy could even tell how long the train was by the way the ground rumbled beneath him.

It was dark, too dark to reliably see where boxcar disappeared and fell away to ground, but Tommy knew when the end of the train was coming. The shaking weight and the grate of metal on metal was a dead giveaway in his eyes. So, when the last open car was rolling on by, Tommy grabbed Tubbo and jumped.

It was a bit of a long leap, from top of the tunnel entrance to the low wood of the flatcar, and it sent a bit of pain spiking up Tommy’s feet and into his ankles. He smothered a hiss of pain, took up his repeater, and skittered through the darkness and to the back of the last traincar.

There was a guard at the end of the train, looking through the darkness for the source of the thump. Tommy slammed the butt of his gun into the side of the guy’s head and he toppled unconscious off the edge. That was one problem solved.

“Tubbo,” Tommy hissed, scrambling to find one of the raised hooks holding the weak oil lanterns.

“Yeah?” He was greeted. The voice felt disembodied, too far away for Tubbo to be even remotely visible.

Tommy found the lantern and stretched to grab it off it’s place. Of course it was a bullseye lantern, the kind of shitty light that would almost be more a hindrance than a help for the train guards. Bullseye lanterns provided very little light and did so in a targeted cone, making it easier for Tommy to slip away unseen while also painting a bright, glowing target on the user. For Tommy, though, they were wonderful.

“Do ya got the carrier car?” Tommy asked, shoving the lantern out for Tubbo. If Tubbo was in one of the roofed cars meant for luggage, the lantern would be useful. It’d serve as a flashlight to target at anything valuable, which included the safe usually found in rich folk’s luggage cars.

“‘Course, Big Man.” Tubbo said, taking the lantern. “You gettin’ the passengers?”

“As always.” 

“Perfect.” There was a click as Tubbo switched on the lantern and Tommy had to squint against the yellow glow pointed directly at him. “You do that. I’ll zip through here and then stop the train.”

“See you on the other side.” Tommy mock saluted before he was off, zipping past the luggage cars and pushing into the first passenger car.

As the door was slammed open, a few heads turned to look at him. The car was mostly desolate, as the last few so often were, and Tommy pointed his repeater to the air. 

“This is a robbery,” He hissed, quiet so as not to draw the attention of any guards stationed further up in the train. That was where the high-quality guests were, Tommy wasn’t going to bother with these people. So far in the back was for third class seating. “Stay quiet and nobody gets hurt. I’m just passin’ through here but if you folk put a stick in my plans I’ll gladly come back.”

There was a rippling affirmative through the sparse passenger population, and a satisfied Tommy strode ahead. The next train car was a lot more promising.

It looked better kept, with short red carpet lining the walkway and ornate carvings in the wooden lining. He hadn’t been noticed yet. Most of the passengers remained asleep.

Tommy took great pleasure in the jolting rouse he gave them.

“This is a robbery!” He repeated, voice a much louder and more forceful shout this time. There was scuffling as passengers reacted with muted franticism. Tommy hoisted his gun up with one fist and most people fell still, allowing him to unclip the canvas drawstring from his belt with his other hand. “Jewelry, cash, anything you got goes in the bag, please’n thank you. Give it up and we’ll have no problems.”

Footsteps sounded as Tubbo crashed through the car, rippling with giggles as he scampered past Tommy and back out of the passenger car. There was a few pings as bullets were shot and then a familiar victory whoop. 

“Or what?” A civilian spoke up. Ah, so they must’ve realized they were being robbed by children.

“Or-“ Tommy started, drawing out the word sweetly. Then he pointed his gun at the stretch of wood next to the man and shot. Someone screamed.

“Or that.” Tommy hoisted his gun back up onto his shoulder with a satisfied purr. His wings, which were folded behind him in the cramped space of a train car, fluffed up. Tommy stuck the bag out and grinned. “So pay up.”

They were much more eager after that to pass over their things. Tommy caught a particularly shiny set of pearls, an expensive looking watch, earrings, necklaces, et cetera, all while Tubbo worked on stopping the train.

Success was found right as Tommy finished wiping clean these people’s pockets, Tubbo throwing down the lever and sending sparks in the air as the train flew to a stop.

“That’s my que!” Tommy chirped, shooting the shaking strangers one final goodbye before skipping out of the space.

There was only one notable car between Tommy and the front of the train. It looked heavier than all the others, the doors heavy metal and definitely locked. Unable to go through, Tommy scaled up the side and shuffled along the top. He had to stay pressed low and even then he still felt the coolness of the stone tunnel roof seep into his wings. He reached the edge and tumbled down into the darkness.

“Tubbo!” He hissed out as he stumbled along the flat car. Blood splattered the railing, which was a little concerning. Before he could worry too much, that shitty lantern switched on and Tubbo’s face appeared before him.

“What the hell is that behind me?” Tommy barked, tucking away his bag of goods and folding his arms over his chest.

“I dunno. I only gunned down one guard before people started runnin’ for it.” Tubbo shrugged. “Presume it’s where all the richest people are hiding.”

Tommy tapped his finger to his chin and scowled in thought. “So it’s got money.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s locked from the inside.”

“Also yes.”

“Shit.” Tommy cursed, slinging his repeater over his back. “You know we gotta get in there.”

“Tommy, I have emptied my revolver into one person and thrown another off a train. I don’t even know what you’ve done. We could totally run now and be far, far away by the time the cops arrive.”

“Think of the opportunities, Tubbo!” Tommy cried, throwing his arms up. “Stocks, bonds, gold, private documents-“

“I only care that they don’t drill here.” Tubbo snorted. Tommy’s shoulders sagged.

“Fine. Let’s leave ‘em a message and scram.”

Tubbo nodded, leading the way back to the locked train car and banging on the door. “This is what you get for comin’ through here! This is our territory!”

Tommy provided his support in the form of a holler while Tubbo drew his revolver. Rounds were fired into the metal, pinging off uselessly. There were startled screams from inside the car even though the metal was plenty thick enough to block revolver rounds.

“Don’t you come around here again!” Tommy yelled, slamming his heel into the car door one last time for good measure. Tubbo laughed before grabbing the hem of Tommy’s shirt and tugging.

“Let’s go.” Tubbo murmured. Tommy nodded, turning on his heels and darting off to the edge of the train car. 

Jumping down was easily enough, but running squished between a train car and a stone wall was not. Tubbo kept on Tommy’s heels regardless and warned him before Tommy tripped over the limp body of the conductor. 

They burst into open air, out of the tunnel panting and gasping. They couldn’t stop just yet, though. The boys kept running, down the hill and into the woods laying next to the train tracks. 

They splashed through a creek and kept running through the woods before coming to the place where their horses were hitched. Tommy gave Henry’s cheek a thankful little pat before clambering up into the saddle and taking off after Tubbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i predicted tommy with wings yet no flight amen thank you modded smp


	4. The Hunt

Wilbur didn’t trust Dream half as far as he could throw him; so, naturally, after their interaction he was cautious.

It had only been an hour since Wilbur’s whole concept of family started to give way under Dream’s offhanded smirk. Of course he wasn’t over it. It was for this reason that Wilbur found himself outside, chopping firewood on the red earth of his front lawn where he could watch Dream from a distance.

A small western town such as theirs was open, so really he could see most everything. People milled about their lives, flitting between shops and buildings while toting crates or leading along livestock. He was honed in on one thing, though- the sheriff’s office.

He noticed when Dream burst from the doors, throwing his horse’s reins up off the hitch and slinging a leg over the saddle.

“Hey!” Wilbur barked, successfully getting Dream’s attention before he tore across the country. The mask turned towards him, the white porcelain glinting in the overbearing sunlight, and then Dream was heading over.

Dream’s horse- a white mare named Spirit- lifted her legs high in a prancing gait as she trotted towards him. Wilbur  _ hated _ that fucking horse. He’d never seen an animal even half as smug.

“Howdy, Will,” Dream barked, leaning forward against Spirit’s neck as he stopped. “Whatchyu want? I got somewhere to be.”

“Where you goin’?”

“Got a telegraph from out East, towards the Badlands. There’s a train stopped in the big tunnel, right before it was able to get out the other side. Think it got robbed.”

Wilbur’s mind immediately flitted to thoughts of a younger brother and a bounty poster. He played it cool. “You going to scout it out, get the train movin’ again, or to arrest someone?”

“All of the above, if I’m lucky. Could use a hand if you’d like.”

It was an olive branch. Both parties knew that.

Dream didn’t  _ do _ olive branches. Wilbur would get used.

He agreed anyways.

“Sure.” He wiped the sweat off his brow and slammed his axe into the stump he’d been using as an oversized cutting board. “Let me get cleaned up.”

“I’m not waiting for you.” Dream informed him flatly. “You know where to go.”

_ Good. _ Wilbur’s words had been an excuse anyway. He was absolutely not keen on riding with Dream for however long it took to get out there. 

“Sure, pal.” Wilbur waved him off, picking up his overcoat from where it’d been slung over the fence. “I’ll see you either when we bump into each other there or when I get back.”

Dream raised two fingers to his forehead in a salute before he was off, spurring his horse out of town.

Wilbur watched him leave before going to fill his canteen. He’d be gone for a while.

He gathered all his things and headed out towards the stable. It was large, intended for all of the family’s horses, but with Phil and Techno gone there were two pointedly open spaces. Wilbur huffed and saddled up his horse.

On his way out of town, he stopped by the bakery. He could smell the bread and biscuits even from outside.

“Niki!” He shouted, gripping the reins as his horse huffed and pawed at the ground. The doors swung open and the face of his friend popped out.

“Afternoon, Will!” She called, waving at him. “Where are you headed?”

“Along the tracks out east.” He nodded in the vague direction. “If I’m not back by tonight, will you check up on the animals for me?”

“Sure thing!” She beamed, tilting her head back as Wilbur answered his thanks. “Be safe!”

“Thanks, Niki!” He called back, waving with one hand as he kicked his horse up to a loping gallop towards the train tracks that led out of town.

The beat of hooves against the wood pleats of the track was a soothing rhythm. Wilbur let himself get lost in it, humming a tune as he went.

It was a long journey. Wilbur didn’t mind, he always liked traveling. It was just him, his horse, and the desert.

Then he neared the tunnel and was reminded of the situation.

The mouth of the tunnel entrance was pitch black, save for one blinding yellow beam shooting out of the shadows. The train light. It was facing towards them, heading west towards Dream’s SMP.

Speak of the devil, he could hear Dream’s voice faint from in the tunnel. Probably talking to passengers on board. Wanting nothing to do with him, Wilbur began to nose around for clues instead.

He found what he was looking for fairly quickly. The ground to the right of the tracks fell down in a sloping, forested hill; barely noticeable was a divet in the mud beneath the underbrush. Either a rock had fallen off the tunnel roof and tumbled down the incline, or something had slipped while fleeing into the woods.

It must’ve been a long time since it happened, considering the situation, so Wilbur would have to stay on his horse to catch up to whatever had come through. Getting down the slope on horseback was a bit of a fickle procedure, but he managed it.

Now that Wilbur was down and in the woods, he was able to see that there was, in fact, a trail. It was hard to see and he had to lean down over the edge of his saddle to follow, but there were definitely light, foot shaped divets in the earth.

Good thing he got here when he did. The wind would have blown sediment to fill the prints by evening.

The trees grew sparser and the footsteps stopped. In their places were hoofmarks, concentrated on one spot where the animal(s?) had presumably been for a bit. Then the tracks led off again, two sets paralleling each other.

Wilbur followed them. Each print was spaced out quite a bit- which told Wilbur that the horses had been running. A trail telling of two horses in a rush.

Wilbur was convinced that this was the path to his brother.

The trees thinned out before disappearing into field. The tracks, previously bared for the world to see on barren ground, became hidden beneath tall wildgrass. If Wilbur wanted to follow, he’d have to get off his horse.

He didn’t need to do that, though. Ahead, past the field and towards the horizon, a pillar of dark smoke rose into the sky.


	5. safe from the cold (in the hold of a family that wasn’t his own)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first of all, if you’re reading this, thank you! this was a fun chapter to write (and it’s the longest, by. quite a bit) so the support really means a bunch ^^
> 
> there’s also a Lot that goes on in this chapter so thats pog  
> comments make my day! gosh especially long analytical ones i love them so much
> 
> thanks, reader!

As Wilbur drew nearer to the source of the smoke, the biome slowly started to change one final time. Trees disturbed the smooth plains, rising up tall and thin before their branches reached out and tangled together in a far-away canopy. 

Wilbur found that it was surprisingly easy to navigate, for a wood- the underbrush was sparse, and his horse ambled over the leaf litter without a care in the world. 

At least until the peace was disturbed by a gun getting pointed at him.

Wilbur only saw a flash of shadow before a figure shot out from a hiding place that could not be found. He pulled back on the reins, his horse rearing her head and nickering nervously, and then Wilbur processed that he was looking down the barrel of a repeater.

Faintly, he wondered if the shadowed criminal pointing a gun at him was really as big and brutish as they seemed. People around here were tough, they had to be- but a man’s gun told a lot about them. Repeaters didn’t hit as hard as shotguns did, but they made up for it by hitting more shots faster; if a man with a rifle could bludgeon Wilbur without a second thought, then a man with a repeater could slit his throat in the blink of an eye.

Wilbur slowly raised his hands, a motion meant to calm the stranger. He was painfully aware of how long it would take him to draw should he have to.

“What’s your business around here?” The stranger barked, stepping out of the shadow enough to jab the barrel of their gun at Wilbur. That allowed the latter to get a good look at the guy.

A wild tuft of blond hair, looking almost a dusty brown in the dim ambient light of the forest. Sharp blue eyes, hostile as ever and gleaming with barely withheld bloodlust. Bandages wrapped around his hands that were worn through in patches just enough so that Wilbur could see the scarred and white-knuckled grip of who he now realized was just a boy.

A scruffy, angry boy with a gun in his hands and murder in his eyes, but a boy all the same.

“I saw campfire smoke and I’ve been traveling a long while. Just seekin’ out some old midwestern hospitality, I can share a drink in return.” Wilbur shrugged, looking the boy up and down.

That was when he realized the swell of the boy’s coat behind his shoulders- which could easily be mistaken as bad or hunched posture. Wilbur knew better. His coat looked the same.

Wings.

When folded down neatly behind one’s back, a coat could be tugged on over a pair of wings without fuss and an avian could go unnoticed. But there were only three people Wilbur had ever heard of having wings- himself, Phil, and the terrible little running gun that Dream so badly wanted captured.

The boy had a calculating look in his eyes as he scrutinized the other. Before he could come up with something to say, though, Wilbur beat him to it.

“Are you TommyInnit?”

The boy- Tommy, Wilbur knew now- stiffened, his eyes flashing. His finger trembled over the trigger and Wilbur wondered if he’d get shot right then and there.

“Sometimes,” Tommy said slyly in lieu of gunfire. The other quirked an eyebrow. “Who’s askin’?”

Wilbur hadn’t expected to get this far.

“Wilbur Soot.” He dipped his head in a nod. Tommy’s eyes didn’t light up with any sort of recognition, though, so he continued. “Son of Philza Craft. Technoblade’s brother.”

It was quiet for a few moments, and then Tommy fucking _laughed._

“Forgive me, I might have to kill a couple cats with this one.” Tommy gasped out when he’d finally caught enough breath to do so. Wilbur scowled as the younger hoisted his gun onto his hip and wiped at his eye. “What the _hell_ is the one family member of goddamn Philza and _Technoblade_ doin’ tromping around my neck of the woods?”

“I wanted to talk. One vagrant to another.” Wilbur bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t entirely convinced that springing the truth on Tommy wouldn’t get him shot, which left avoidance as the only plausible option. “Cops are up at the tracks this morning, they’re looking for you.”

Tommy waved a hand, unbothered. “They’re always lookin’ for me. Just wait ‘till I run far enough away, they’ll forget all about me.”

“That’s… one way to do it, I guess.” Wilbur frowned. Tommy’s face just split in a grin.

“Sure.”

“You’re never gonna settle down somewhere?” Wilbur tried again, watching as Tommy drew shapes in the leaf litter with the tip of his gun. God _damn,_ this really was a child.

“Nah. I got my camps, things are real good there. I’m happy.”

“I’ve been an outlaw myself, I think you forget my family. I say from experience that campsites got nothin’ on a good house.”

“Then you’re doin’ it wrong!” Tommy’s voice very suddenly spiked to a shout. Wilbur startled at the burst of energy. “What kinda man don’t like a good camp?”

“A sane one.” Wilbur’s tone was downright venomous. Tommy may be family, but he was already proving himself to be an eccentric, over-the-top grifter with a superiority complex and too many bullets.

“I’ll change your mind. You said you wanted a drink, yeah? C’mon.”

Wilbur’s mind blanked. Never in a million years would Phil or Techno invite a relative stranger down to their camp, regardless of the situation- and maybe Tommy just lived life on the edge, was here for a good time and didn’t care enough to be mistrustful when he could just go shooting snakes, but still. The faith sprung on him so suddenly was jarring.

Tommy was still staring at him so Wilbur choked out some incoherent agreement noises and nodded. 

Next thing he knew, he was being led through the woods by the county’s most notorious boy bandit.

Said boy bandit was very loud. Wilbur tried not to clock out as he rambled.

“-And there’s a lotta us, which is why I’m not scared bringin’ you in. We’ll be movin’ soon. You gotta stay the night, though, can’t have you runnin’ off to snitch. I mean, your family hates bounty hunters and you aren’t estranged so I assume that you wouldn’t _take_ a bounty, but to be safe, yanno? Got a lot to lose here, surprisingly-“

Wilbur focused on the trail that they were following. It was a little deer path, widened slightly by the apparent coming and going of horses and wagons, and through the trees Will could see the glistening water of a lake. 

The trees cleared out, revealing what looked to be a cape extending into the water. It was a large and open plot of land, a caravan of wagons circled around the area to protect the camp within. The faint sounds of chickens and horses could be heard.

Tomme led Wilbur to the hitching posts, where he reluctantly left his horse to enter the camp.

It was certainly lively. There were two campfires, both set on opposite ends of the camp, and miscellaneous wooden crates and tools lay strewn about in disorganized organization. Multiple tents had been pitched, open to reveal bedrolls piled on top of furs and leaves to provide insulation from the cold earth, and 'tables' (which were really slices of plywood rested on top of crates and surrounded by benches) that made the place feel like a home. 

To call the place 'lived in' was an understatement. Grass had been tromped down with the coming and going of gang members, and every flat surface found itself being used. A deck of cards spread out on the table like a game had been left unfinished, dice, instruments (Wilbur's creative heart blossomed, because if Tommy was living with a bunch of murderers he at least had music in his life), and even knives sticking out of a tree where they'd been flung and embedded.

Above all that, there were _people_. Enough to populate a small town- which wasn't saying much, because Wilbur had passed through settlements whose population grew twenty percent with just his presence- but he had apparently underestimated the word 'gang'. He'd thought Tommy only worked with the other little hybrid he called his partner in crime.

The presence of a stranger among their ranks did not go unnoticed. Wilbur felt his skin crawl as no less than ten sets of eyes bored past his skin and into his soul.

Tommy led him across the camp with confident strides that Wilbur unconsciously emulated. The latter was in enemy territory, welcomed and heralded as a visitor of sorts, yet he was still stepping right into the wolves' den. One misstep and he would be ripped to shreds.

Wilbur was stopped before one of the logs lining the furthest campfire, by where someone unfamiliar was sitting. A cut of hickory was in one of their hands, the other sliding a knife along the top half and slowly working the wood into a wedge.

Wilbur was just starting to realize how many of these people were hybrids. This person was no different. Their hair was green, which was odd enough on its own, but extra tufts of green (fur? scales?) poked up over the bandanna that they had pulled over their nose. Black leather gloves obscured their hands from view, matching the engulfing dark of their eyes. Save for the moon white of their irises. Wilbur swallowed and tasted gunpowder.

"Sam!" Tommy crowed, raising a hand high above his head and waving wildly. Wilbur summoned a diplomatic smile. "The brother of _Technoblade_ stumbled over our camp!"

"I would scold you for dragging in a stranger, but I don't think any kin of his would come over just to bother us." Sam set down his wood and carving knife, placing his hands on his knees and pushing himself up. Wilbur shook his hand when it was offered. "It's a pleasure, hopefully. I trust Tommy wasn't too much trouble."

Sam was easy to talk with. Easier than Tommy, who seemed to be loud just for the sake of it and didn't leave much room for any word that wasn't pointed. Wilbur's smile became a little less mechanical.

"He did point a gun at me and then dragged me over to prove that your guys' camp was better than my house." Wilbur folded his arms over his chest and emitted an amused puff. "I ain't too mad, though, can't be upset at children."

Tommy squawked as Sam chuckled and shook his head. When Sam spoke, however, it was much more serious. "I don’t blame him for that first part. People like us gotta be armed to the teeth if we wanna survive."

"I guess." Wilbur admitted, looking to a stack of books left haphazardly on the table. "I always talk before I shoot, though."

"Silver tongue," Tommy cut in, sneering at the opportunity for retaliation after Wilbur's last jab. "You need that, don't you? Since you look like you couldn't shoot a barn door at three paces-"

Wilbur half expected Sam to scold Tommy, but the older man just went back to whittling away at his wood. Wilbur took it upon himself to provide his own defense. “You can shoot a gun, sure, but you’re built like a snake on stilts. A stiff wind could blow you over, child.”

Tommy got red in the face. “Yeah? Well, you’re so low- you’re so low that if a rattlesnake was to fart, you’d get dust in your eyes, you b-“

Sam slammed his knife into the log and cleared his throat, spreading his arms. “Alright, boys. It’s gettin’ to be about drinking time around here. Why don’t you join us at the table, Wilbur?”

Wilbur and Tommy were too busy glowering at each other to turn to look at Sam, but at the invitation the older male gained a wicked grin. “Of course, Sam, thank you.”

Tommy rounded on his heels and stalked off towards one of the tables at which people were already gathering. It was the one nearest the other campsite; Wilbur couldn’t help but notice that it only had three benches where the other one had four. That left the face of the table nearest the fire open.

Sam rested a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder before he could follow, making him jolt. The latter looked up into those dark eyes and found them surprisingly gentle.

“Tommy’s a little rough around the edges, but please be kind to him. Even if it gets a little hard sometimes. He has it rough, around here we all do.”

Wilbur felt any remaining prickle of irritation disappear as bile rose into his throat. _His fault, his family’s fault._ So he only nodded. 

Sam gave him one final, unreadable look before he turned to follow Tommy’s path down to the wide table and the growing group there.

Wilbur, curious, decided to watch before he would join them. Most people were dressed in simple clothing, basic button-ups and suspenders with the occasional coat. A lot of neutral colors, browns or blacks with the occasional spot of color- like Tommy’s red vest, or Sam’s olive duster coat. Wilbur also caught sight of things like a deep purple neckerchief, bright golden cufflinks that looked too expensive to be a vagrant’s and flashed even in the dying dusk light, and a mossy green undershirt that peeked out from under the brown of a vest. Plenty of colors, just interspersed throughout everything else.

Except for the bright red coat laced with a glaring gold that stuck out harshly against the more natural hues. The cloud of white curls spilling over the jacket’s collar didn’t much help matters either.

Wilbur’s eye was drawn to the person immediately, of course, the stranger laughing and dancing around the table as she clutched a pot to her chest and ladled soups into bowls. There was a certain grace about it, not a drop spilled even as she hopped up on one of the benches to reach across the table and pour someone’s second bowl.

She pranced and laughed and joked with the people at the table, regardless of whether they reciprocated her joy or not.

 _These_ were the people Dream so badly wanted dead. A family, just like any other.

Wilbur took a seat at Tommy’s left, ignoring the glare he got as a bowl was slid over to him. He lifted it, and sure as sunshine the hybrid in the red coat filled his bowl with a grin.

“You’re a new face!” She chirped, long sheep’s ears flicking about. “I’m Captain Puffy. Around here, though, most folks drop the title.”

“You seem like you got a lot of stories.” Wilbur commented, offering her a simper as he swiped a spoon off the table’s center. “Wilbur Soot.”

“Oh, around here we all do.” Puffy nodded as she moved to refill a masked man’s bowl. “We’re doing drinks after the stew pot runs dry, so don’t be shy to ask for an extra serving or two.”

“ _Drinks!_ ” Tommy shouted, slamming his palms down on the table. The boy on his other side snickered.

Sam immediately looked up from his place away from the table, by that masked man and the campfire. He and the other people gathered, both at the table and sitting at the campfire, formed a giant oval. “Not for you. You, Tubbo, Purpled, and Ranboo better keep your paws _dry_.”

Tommy groaned while an awkwardly folded over spider-domino of a man lifted his hand and shuffled nervously. “I don’t mind that rule.”

“Thank you.” Sam nodded at the man- boy? Man child?- and leveled his gaze back to Tommy. “Be more like Ranboo.”

“Oh, I can handle it, I’m a _big man_.”

“You’re sixteen.”

Tommy pouted. Wilbur watched the interaction with amusement sparking in his eyes.

(Even if he felt like he didn’t quite belong here.)

“You got whiskey?” Wilbur asked Sam instead of commenting on Tommy’s complaints.

“Moonshine only around here. We got a still up the road. You can water it down if it’s too much, but it’ll taste like shit.”

“I can handle it.” Wilbur shrugged, lifting his bowl to his mouth when his spoon failed to catch anything substantial. “Thank you for the hospitality.”

“You know, we’re quite nice so long as you’re not rich or powerful.” The boy to Tommy’s right mused. Wilbur jumped, having forgotten his existence with the dozen other conversations going on in the background.

Wilbur set his bowl back down and got another serving of stew dumped on him before he could open his mouth in protest. He took it without complaining, because with Phil and Techno gone he had been cooking for himself for weeks now.

Wilbur wasn’t a good cook.

Tommy raised his glass at that. Wilbur was too preoccupied trying to finish his next bowl so that he could get a real drink to comment.

The conversation turned to absent rambling. Wilbur watched Puffy serve out one last dish before tipping the pot over on its side in the grass. Nothing spilled, of course, and the sheep(?) hybrid turned to heft up two mid-sized barrels. One beneath each arm.

She carried it like it was nothing. Wilbur was impressed.

“Shots!” She declared, the crates supporting the table rattling as she set them down on the surface. The top was pried off of the barrels and glasses started getting passed about.

Tommy jumped up on the bench and _spat_ in one of the barrels. Wilbur’s jaw went slack.

Nobody else seemed to mind, though. The boy to Tommy’s right did the same thing, and then they both sat back down like it was nothing. Puffy secured the top back on the barrel.

“What the hell was that?” He barked at Tommy. The bastard child _laughed._

“That barrel’s gonna get shipped out to sell at the saloon in the Dream SMP. We make our drinks illegally so it’s cheaper for them to buy from us instead of somewhere with a permit to brew, and Dream hasn’t had a sip of moonshine without my spit in it in _months._ ”

Wilbur paled and pushed his cup away, suddenly unwilling to have a drink. He was all for sticking it to Dream- but he went to that saloon, _damn it,_ he didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire.

The table took great joy in his reaction. The younger boys howled in laughter, even Puffy cracking a snicker as she dipped glasses in the untainted barrel and returned them full.

“You know, suddenly I’m ready to hit the hay.” Wilbur tried his best for indifference, stretching his arms up over his head. “Gonna go grab my bedroll off my saddle. Do y’all care where I sleep?”

“‘S long as it ain’t anywhere near me.” Tommy wheezed, still trembling with laughter. “Your gangly ass limbs look like they could reach me halfway across camp.”

“Whatever, child.” Wilbur shrugged, shuffling out of the bench and away from the table. “I might, just to pester you.”

“You don’t even know which one’s mine, fuck you bitch.”

“Probably the one that smells.”

Puffy cut in very unsubtly, waving at him with that grin of hers. “Goodnight, Wilbur! Glad you’re stayin’ the night, dangerous to travel out here at this time!”

Wilbur’s mind drifted to the earlier threats, reminded of his promise to stay overnight so that he couldn’t run and rat out the camp location. Not that he wanted to, but it was an understandable concern.

“Thank you, Puffy.” Wilbur nodded, offering her a smile before stalking off to unload his horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sam lets tommy kill people but not drink asmr


End file.
